Through the Haze
by Evelyn Downs
Summary: Jaded Noble Mel expects death, on trial for murder. But when a mysterious organization dubs her "uniquely talented" and pulls some strings, Mel is sent into Military Service: she'd rather die. The world is rotten; humanity deserves its end. But as she grows, learns, loves and loses, perhaps Mel will see through her hatred and find something worth protecting. Eventual LevixOC.
1. Chapter 1

**Hi, everyone! I don't probably have any business starting this-for any who have encountered me before, you know I have two other stories that I should probably devote attention to. But I've elected to try this instead of my existing SnK fic, "Beyond the Cage." That story was becoming unwieldy-I overcomplicated the plot, I think. So I've elected something a little more simple (but with plenty of twists, I hope).**

 **Anyway-the title is a working one, and the length of this first chapter (toward the longer one) is experimental, largely. Let me know if you'd like longer or shorter chapters. And as things move alone, I'd be happy to have title suggestions!**

 **Without further ado: I do not own the Shingeki no Kyojin franchise, only my rather extensive host of OCs, and at times, the plot.**

 **Enjoy!**

 _"I didn't know where I came from; I didn't care. I didn't know where I was going—I never bothered to look. I only knew where I was…and would have done anything to escape."_

 **845—Mitras Public Courthouse**

"The jury will deliberate."

For the first time since Judge Crawford Itzkof slammed his gavel to open the trial of Zara Mel Quincy, the courtroom was silent. The incessant chaos of the crowd—the largest at a trial in the past decade, well over the courtroom's capacity—had finally stilled after hours of shouts, slammed hands, stomped feet, anxious whispers and groans. The abrupt lack of noise, of motion, was disorienting.

Chained to the floor, on her knees in the middle of everything, Mel missed the cacophony. It had been distracting, let her mind wander beyond herself, beyond the bland square of aged, warped wood flooring she stared at through curled tendrils of hair, head bowed.

Now her attention was brought sharply to bear on herself. Her knees burned from their prolonged abuse, shoulders protesting the severe angle at which they were pulled behind her. Her wrists stung, chafed raw from thick, rope bindings. She was afraid to move too much, knowing the pain would intensify if she did. Her head swam, her system depleted. She couldn't remember the last time she'd eaten…certainly not for her two nights in the cells. (She didn't trust food from Inner City swine.)

Worst of all, every hammering heartbeat wracked her frame. In the silence, she could feel her fear as a tremor over her body, hear the rush of blood in her head with her accelerated pulse, smell her own scent: sour from nerves, the lingering blood on her clothes and stagnant nights in a dank dungeon.

 _Self-loathing...Fear is for the weak of heart._

The burn of every pair of eyes in the room raked her flesh—intense, condemning, pitying, disgusted. Mel gritted her teeth—proximity to so many people suffocated her, and she could almost taste their stagnant curiosity settling on her dark skin, her wild black halo of hair, the signet ring that hung on a chain round her neck, almost brushing the floor. Her breath came fast, trembling. She hated the stares—had hated them since she could remember. Everywhere she went, eyes following her…she wanted to gouge them all out.

At least she'd forever closed the pair that smoldered most—as bright amber as her own, always watching, always hungry…Mel shuddered. She would never regret the circumstances that lead to her imprisonment, and, she suspected, her demise. It was worth it.

 _It was worth it…_ but she bit her lip hard in frustration, felt the skin break and leak warm, salty fluid. Her own incompetence had inhibited her escape. emI was so close! /emTen feet from the underground staircase, when they'd caught her. _Never quite fast enough…_

"A verdict has been reached." The words sliced through the silence,hollow in the dank air, and effectively shattered Mel's steady spiral into regret. The statement was met by a dull rustle as the multitude looked up, woke from their daze, and then fell back to silence. Mel dared, at last, to move her eyes: up, off to the right, without lifting her head, to stare toward the jury.

An ominous mass of deep purple cloaks, one woman standing at the helm to deliver her fate. _Purple_ …she recalls a text from a book she read as a child, on the theory of color language. _Purple is the color of humanity…_ Her lip curled in a sneer. Everyone here touted humanity like a badge of honor, a prized and fragile symbol of righteousness. As though the label of "humanity" alone gave them license, value…as though it meant they _deserved_ a place in the world. As far as Mel was concerned, they could hold on to that tarnished badge and follow it like sheep to its rotten conclusion.

 _Humanity deserves everything it gets._

"Lieutenant Caden Briggs, to the stand," Judge Crawford announced, and the standing woman made her way to the podium at the base of his raised dais. Mel's amber gaze tracked her, watched her pull back her hood to reveal cropped, white-blond hair pulled back from her face, the eyes behind her spectacles warmer than Mel would have supposed. She stood straight, chin up, and regarded the crowd of nobles sternly before, ultimately, meeting Mel's narrowed eyes. _At least she actually looks me in the eye_ , Mel thought wryly.

 _Lieutenant_ …Mel wondered idly which division she was in. Not Military Police, or Mel would have encountered her before now. But not Garrison either, most likely, or she would be on alert after the fall of Wall Maria, two weeks ago. Recon? Even less likely—they were never called for something as mundane and civic as Jury duty.

"The jury finds Lady Zara Mel Quincy guilty of Voluntary Manslaughter," she announced. Mel winced at the ring of her full title, but had little time to consider the rest of the announcement as the courtroom erupted into loud cries of outrage.

"But that's third-degree!"

"She's a first-degree killer!"

"Hang her!"

"You're just going easy because she's a kid!"

"This was _patricide_!"

"We need to _decrease_ the population, not coddle its criminals!"

 _Ironic, that a nobleman from Mitras would spout such a thing_ …

Crawford slammed his gavel repeatedly, a long-suffering scowl marring his weathered face, and pushed strands of white hair from his forehead. The crowd, grumbling, reluctantly settled down. Mel returned her wide, stunned gaze to the ground under the heat of a thousand hateful glares.

 _Voluntary Manslaughter_ …Mel didn't know all that much about the law, but she recalled a newspaper article from years ago: a criminal report. In her mind, she conjured the image, zeroed in on that phrase: "Intent to kill, without premeditation or malice aforethought."

In other words, Lieutenant Briggs had made the call that Mel acted in the heat of passion…and her sentence would, therefore, be lighter than the standby for First Degree Murder.

 _I'm not going to be executed?_

Mel wasn't entirely sure how to feel about that. She had resigned herself to the gallows from the moment she was caught—depended on it, even, as a final release. Now she was to live? Her heart pounded ever harder, her ears seemed filled with cotton, and the slightly-numbed palms of her hands felt _clammy._

 _No…she_ clenched her fists, relishing the resulting stabs of pain that lanced up her arms. _Whatever comes after this isn't life, pulse or no_ …

"Lady Quincy is a minor!" Briggs said firmly, addressing the still-rowdy spectators. Mel looked up, once more, through her hair. Briggs' eyes were hard, jaw set. There would be no swaying the jury, on this. "The evidence clearly suggests she was under duress at the time of the murder, most likely unstable." _Unstable?_ Mel glowered. She found it entirely insulting that a soldier, of all people, would consider _her_ unstable for killing a man too slippery and foul for the law to catch up with. _Unstable my ass, I just did a public service._

"The verdict will hold." Crawford's voice, though not particularly loud, settled the room. There was no arguing with his authority, and Briggs calmly straightened the hem of her military-grade jacket. Crawford stared at her from the corners of his misty blue eyes. "And the sentence?"

For a moment, Briggs said nothing, merely appraised the crowd. She had to tread carefully. Anger a crowd this large—packed with powerful, noble families—and she wouldn't be the only one facing consequences. Her gaze settled on the hunched, dark figure, seeming too small for the heavy chains that bound her, and her resolve hardened.

The girl's eyes were huge, glowing from her dark visage with emotions Briggs didn't dare to ponder. _What horrors has this 13-year-old witnessed, to make an expression like that?_ Face gaunt, shadows evident even on her already dark skin, curls draped over her form like a murky cloak to her hips, so wild they nearly swallowed her diminutive frame. Briggs sighed.

"Wall Maria has fallen," she began, voice tired. "We have sent 20% of our 4 million-strong population into its titan-infested lands for the slaughter. The Military has just suffered more casualties than in any single event of the past century." The hall was silent, faces previously twisted in righteous protest slackened, eyes turned away in guilt. This was a population that didn't like to hear the horrors of reality, the statistics of death, or think about the poor and middle-class who died so that they might live their pompous, overfed, oblivious lives.

"This girl," she pointed to Mel, who remained stock still, "has unique abilities that we must put to use. Why cause more death? We need numbers, and we need skill: why not use hers?" The crowd stirred. Nobles and merchants turned to whisper to one another, curiosity about the strange teenage noble renewed.

Mel, herself, had a horrible, sinking feeling in her gut. If this was headed where she feared…Her mouth went suddenly very dry, and she swallowed convulsively.

 _I don't like this…_

"The jury sentences Lady Zara Quincy to a lifetime of service," Briggs announced in a clear voice, with a ring of finality. Mel closed her eyes, felt the tension leave her body in defeat. "She will enlist in the military, effective immediately."

 _The military_ …Mel couldn't imagine anything worse. Judge Crawford's sharp gavel hit thrice—the final nail in Mel's coffin.

 _Why couldn't they just have killed me and gotten it over with…you call this lenience?!_ Mel tracked Briggs through the crowd, her eyes lit with dismay and fury. She would far and away have preferred the noose. This?

This would be a lifetime in Hell.

§§

For the next three days, Mel scanned her surroundings tirelessly. A crevice, a large crowd—a moment of closed eyes or a gap in attention, and she would be gone. She just needed an opening…

She'd thought that moment had come when she saw her escort for the carriage ride to the Southern Division Military Academy: a noblewoman by the name of Florence Hardt, clad head to toe in impracticality (a blue dress to match her striking eyes, complete with flounces and ruffles; delicate shoes with the steady click of a raised heel; a twirling, frivolous parasol of pastel yellow, a perfectly superfluous hat perched atop her intricate pile of coppery hair). Why they picked such a woman to escort a known, convicted murderer to a Military base, Mel couldn't begin to comprehend.

Nevertheless, their pain, her gain…

Or so she had thought. And yet, when she'd made a dash for a nearby alleyway (the moment her prison guards left her alone with Madame Hardt), Mel had found the sharp end of a parasol jabbed, hard, into her shoulder, the pang of a dainty heel against her achilles tendon, and the following, blunt impact of cobbled street against her burlap-clad bottom.

She had stared up at Florence in awe. _Who is this woman?!_ Fast enough that Mel's sharp gaze had barely caught the blur, she had left the teen no time whatsoever to react.

And then the woman stood over her child prisoner, parasol hoisted comfortably over one shoulder, and said with a stunning grin, "That's quite enough dilly-dally. Shall we press on?" in that infuriating, coquettish way the noble had of speaking.

Needless to say, Mel had far from given up (she took her chances on the road, from various inns, even on a latrine break). But by midway through their third day of travel, Mel had resigned herself to her fate. Whatever witch or demon this Lady Hardt was, Mel was no match for her.

To make matters worse, the girl had developed a pounding, nearly debilitating headache from the second hour on: Florence _never_ stopped talking! The woman chattered endlessly, unfazed by Mel's obvious disinterest in the _weather,_ or _fashion,_ or the latest mystery pamphlet by writer Cecily Bradstene (never mind her being "the brightest imagination of our time!") Imagine the poor girl's horror when, their first night at an upscale inn called "Rowan Hill," Mel was awoken by the _continuing_ murmur of Lady Florence Hardt-in her sleep!

Mel pressed her forehead hard against the window of the carriage. Amber eyes muted by exhaustion, pressing anxiety and the dull throb in her head, she watched the landscape pass by. Hills…hills…trees…town…hills…

 _How much farther?_

Mel never thought she'd see the day she _wanted_ to reach a Military training facility, and grimaced at how low she had fallen. But the steady clop of the horse's had begun to echo in her mind, morphing into a haunting refrain against the heavy quiet of the cabin…

Wait. Quiet?

Slowly, so as not to jar her head, Mel pulled away from the window and stared at Florence. She put her mind on replay, locating the last thing Florence had said. A full thirty seconds ago, the woman had spoken:

 _"Half an hour away…I suppose it's time, then."_

Mel's stare was met by cool, crystalline blue, and the most somber expression she had yet to see on her escort's face.

"…what?" she asked dumbly, though she knew the words exactly. Florence quirked an eyebrow, clearly aware that Mel needed no repetition.

"Before we reach our destination, I must relay some things to you, Lady Quincy." The obnoxious lilt was gone from Florence's voice. Mel narrowed her eyes, eyes glinting. Florence's face softened at the expression, a rueful smile across her features. "You don't like when I call you that, do you?" Mel lifted her chin airily. She was not a Quincy.

Florence sighed. "Will Zara do?" Mel nodded once, crisp. "Good. Then, Zara, I'm sure you've guessed, by now, that your assignment to the military was no accident. It took a great deal of influence to ensure this outcome." Mel's face remained pointedly impassive. Influence? She thought back to the blond Lieutenant who had so self-assuredly commanded Mel's sentence. Was she a plant? Bribed?

 _Where is this going?_

"And so?" she pressed. Her voice was raspy, thick from disuse. Mel hadn't spoken once since her capture five days ago, silenced by circumstance and stubbornness. Her throat hurt, and she resisted the urge to cough. Her eyes watered.

"I represent a very mobile organization," Florence continued. Mel noted her omission of said organization's name. "We have reason to suspect the Military may be compromised very soon—something, I assure you, would be disastrous for humanity. If what we _think_ proves true, it may spell the end, for us." She paused for a pregnant moment, letting the gravity of her statement settle.

Florence didn't know what she was expecting—alarm? Fear? Curiosity? At the very least a mild concern…what she got was the same apathy her charge had worn for the past five days. A quirked eyebrow, a glint within ember eyes that said "and so? Why should I care?"

 _Zephyr said she would be tough…_ Florence huffed, remembering her comrade's warning. Florence never imagined a 13-year-old noble would be quite this jaded.

"Why me?" Two syllables, so quiet Florence could barely hear them. The girl's voice was lower than she would have guessed, given her age and size, clearly cracked from days of silence. Florence hadn't pressed for conversation, but she had certainly taken note of her charge's complete refusal to speak. She'd initially assumed it was fear...now she knew it was resentment, stubbornness, distrust.

"We'd like to utilize your unique attributes, when the time comes," she told Mel, who shook her head minutely in confusion. Again, about "uniqueness." _What attributes?_ "Your memory will serve extremely well, placed within the Military," Florence answered the unspoken question. "Beyond that, our limited knowledge of your lineage suggests other strengths that may prove useful against the titans and other enemies."

Mel's eyes widened as she stared straight ahead of her—the only sign of her inner turbulence at Florence's words. Her lineage? How did Florence know about it when Mel herself barely remembered her mother's face? And her memory…Mel's mind darkened at the implications. She knew her memory was special—amazing enough that it had put her through a million sausage-fingered hands as a child. She'd be damned if anyone but her got to use it ever again.

I _don't care about the titans…or these "other enemies."_ As though human's weren't their own biggest enemy, half the time.

Amber eyes flickered back to energetic blue ones, to find that Florence's blinding smile was plastered to her face once more.

"Work hard and give it your best—we'll just have to wait and see how this goes," she said, false cheer in her voice and a pitch Mel's head protested. She leaned against the window once more, the cool glass soothing against her skin, and her brow furrowed in a scowl. She hadn't missed the veiled threat in Florence's words: work with us, or we can send you back to the gallows.

Five days ago, Mel was more than ready to face the hangman. Today, watching the lush, green world go by…was she still? If she was honest, having tasted fresh air once again, she couldn't answer. Perhaps she was still ready to die...but not by the noose. Not hung like a petty criminal, when she felt strongly that she had done nothing wrong. _I'm in the right,_ she thought bitterly. _I refuse to go down like a feral dog._

With an angry click of her tongue, Mel resigned to do exactly as Florence had said: Wait and see. She closed her eyes with a gusty exhale through the nose—a fruitless attempt to calm the churning anxiety in her stomach.

"We're here." Mel opened her eyes slowly to find that the drowsy, rolling hills had, at last, been replaced with a scene entirely different.

The coach stopped. Florence did not get out of the cab as Mel hopped down, borrowed boots kicking up a cloud of dust. The woman merely leaned out the open door, a pristine kerchief held over her mouth and nose, one hand waving gently.

"Oh, I forgot." Quick as a snake, she grabbed Mel's wrist, flipped her hand palm-up, and pressed something there. Mel hissed-her hands were still red and sore-and instinctively pulled back, to no avail.

Once more, blue eyes locked with wary amber, the grip around Me's wrist not quite hard enough to bruise, but vice-like. "Hold on to your distrust, Lady Zara," she said, wry, dark humor coloring her tone. "It will serve you well in the military."

With that the carriage disappeared behind a plume of reddish dust that caught at Mel's eyes and clogged her nose. When the haze cleared, the girl was alone, staring out at a Military compound: flat, barren training fields, scattered cabins, walled in by a sheer cliff (probably at least 65 feet), atop which squatted the ominous Headquarter building, with an unsettling view of the entire compound…and everyone in it.

Mel swallowed and clenched her fists. Something in her right hand crumpled—the departing gift from Florence. A piece of paper, folded, with neat, inky script across the middle.

"Nice try, Q. Bad luck on that verdict. I'll be in touch. Stay alive. -Z"

Z…Mel's eyes widened before narrowing to a scowl. She crumpled the paper mercilessly and then, unsatisfied with that, shredded it. _So he's involved, huh…I should have guessed..._

She couldn't help but remember the last time she had seen him-somewhere between a father and brother figure, her haven in the Underground. She'd been blind with rage, marching toward the imposing stairs to the upper world. He'd grabbed her arm, forced her to look at him. Blue eyes wide, pleading, strands of inky hair across his pale face. He'd begged her not to go back above ground, but she'd brushed him off without so much as a goodbye. _He's not worth it, Q—don't throw away your life!_

As though servitude as a soldier and a spy didn't count as a life thrown away.

 **Alrighty...so there's that. I know-entirely OCs for this first chapter. Let me know if that kills the interest, and maybe I'll attempt to start the story elsewhere in the plot, move up the time until canon-impact. Especially because, fair warning: the next bit will continue to be chock-full of OCs...**

 **Speaking of feedback: please do leave comments of any kind! I'd greatly appreciate thoughts, opinions...both criticisms and suggestions are highly valued!**

 **Next Up: Mel arrives at the Military Academy, meets the rest of the Cadets...and of course, clashes with General Keith Shadis, sadist that he is. How will Mel fair in the brutal regiment of training? Will she make friends? And...will anyone interesting come to observe-this will be the first class after Shiganshina, after all!**

 **Have a lovely day, all!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Okay...here's chapter 2~! I'm going to try and update on Sundays, so I held off on finishing this one until today. (That's mostly an excuse...it was kind of tricky for me to write, as I'm still feeling out Mel's character a bit).**

 **Anyway, I know this one stays pretty OC-centric, and you guys are probably more interested in getting along to the canon bits...but I promise they're coming. Just bear with me..?**

 **Without further ado, here's the next chapter!**

 _What am I even doing here?_

For the umpteenth time since her arrival the afternoon before, Mel wondered who the hell had thought her enlistment was a good idea. She was woefully out of place—and not just for her appearance or her age.

Sure, almost everyone here was taller than her, and at least 6 months older; no one shared her coloring. But mostly, they all had such _expressions_ …earnest, eager, angry, resentful, dark… _determined_ , every single one of them. As though a light of conviction shone through their eyes.

It was immediately apparent to Mel that those with stronger light would make it through the bootcamp, and she knew she must appear dully cynical by contrast.

 _He can see it, too,_ she thought, eyeing Instructor Keith Shadis as he waltzed through the orderly collection of 600-odd cadets. For most, he easily struck up a scarring, relentless series of demands and questions, leaving the victim blank-headed and fairly trembling.

Those with the strongest expressions, he left alone. Mel made careful note of who they were and tried to ignore her hammering heartbeat as Shadis' boots came ever closer to her position, near the back of the group.

Shadis was every bit as intimidating as Mel had heard—tall, leanly muscled, with a completely bald head, a deep tan and frighteningly dark circles ringing his eyes. Though his appearance was far from the most frightening thing about him: what Mel dreaded was his _voice_ , terribly loud with an ability to carry, and of course his _presence._ She didn't want him close to her…felt the pressure of his gaze would flatten her like a bug.

And then, as she stared at the packed-earth before her feet, two black boots appeared. Far too polished for the dusty setting, large, heavy…

"WHERE ARE YOU LOOKING, CADET?!" Mel startled, and slowly lifted her gaze: up a pair of long, canvas-clad legs, past the decorated military jacket, straight to hollowed, commanding brown eyes.

She gulped, a sweat breaking out on her palms. She felt eight years old, again, performing in front of so many gazes, old nobles with reeking breath and sausage fingers…

"What's your name, recruit?" Expression entirely unchanged, Shadis lowered his voice just barely, and Mel thought that made it worse—like the calm before the storm.

 _Fucking hell,_ Mel thought. _Pull yourself together—you aren't a kid, anymore!_ As if she would let herself fall to that level ever again…With a sharp inhale through the nose, Mel clenched her fists, furrowed her brow, and met Shadis' gaze head on.

"MEL, SIR!"

"BullSHIT, cadet, or are you too STUPID to remember your LAST NAME?!" Mel gritted her teeth—he was going to make her say it?

"ZARA MEL QUINCY, SIR!" She shouted at the top of her lungs before she could talk herself out of it. Shadis only leaned over her further.

"You think you're worth something because you're a noble?!" Mel glowered—he'd known who she was (she assumed he'd been briefed about having a _criminal_ in his class). He'd just wanted her to say it.

"NO, SIR!"

"You think noble blood will help you _kill TITANS,_ you moldy mansion SCUM?"

"No, SIR."

"YOU AREN'T WORTH TITAN _SHIT_!" He bellowed. Mel could feel her hands shaking, her temples sweating. She could feel the gazes of the other cadets on her—if any hadn't known who she was, they did now. She glowered at Shadis. What was the point of doing this? Didn't he want to unify them? Give them all solidarity against him…wasn't that part of the point? Why isolate her with her identity, pit her against the others?

"Titans don't shit, sir," she growled before she could think better of it. She saw Shadis' eye twitch, but otherwise no reaction.

"HAVE YOU EVEN SEEN A TITAN, you NOBLE BRAT?!"

"No, SIR!"

"YOU BLACKENED SHRIMP!" he continued to berate her. "You're lower than dirt, like a wild animal! You REEK of PRIVILEGE, you SHITSTAIN! If you don't drop out in the first WEEK, I'm going soft! If I let SHIT like you graduate, you'll be TITAN feed the first time you see one!"

Mel blinked—she couldn't even think of a reaction to such a barrage of baseless insults. She could only gape as Shadis walked further down the row, only to stop just before the next recruit and stare back at her over his shoulder.

"And recruit—cut that mongrel hair before reveille or I'll strangle you with it." The last sentence was so much quieter, with such foreboding and malice that Mel shivered, her face flushed and one hand fluttered involuntarily to her hair.

What on earth was she in for?

§§

By the end of the second day, Mel wished she was back in a cell.

After Shadis' blatant ousting of her identity to the other 599 cadets, no one would speak to her, and everywhere she went Mel felt the heat of glares at her back. A range of reactions: curiosity to outright loathing. _Just for being a "noble"…_ these kids didn't even know what that meant. They thought nobility was all about being pampered, over-fed and oblivious.

As if.

Of course, Mel didn't particularly care what the other cadets thought of her—she wasn't here to make friends. But resentment, while harmless enough, often led to more _physical_ disadvantages.

During the mandatory (abysmally long) evening run, Mel was tripped or shoved bodily by no less than ten different cadets, leaving her covered in red dust with scraped knees by the time they trudged to dinner.

Needless to say, she was then relegated to the very last in line for showers, and could still feel a dull throb where she'd been hit with a flying bar of soap (accident her ass).

She suffered in silence, throwing glowers like daggers and feeling like a taunted animal in a ring of street-kid bullies.

But when they messed with her _food,_ Mel couldn't hold it in any longer.

The mess hall was located in the middle of the residential area of the compound, roughly equidistant to all the cadet bunkers and the main training field. It was a massive building—essentially a long, wooden cabin—which easily held all the cadets, plus instructors and staff, filled with long tables and benches. Lanterns hung low, lighting the hall in dim saffron, and there were doors on either end.

Cadets filed from both to get their bowls of stew.

Mel's stomach growled appreciatively when she finally made it inside the hall, stuck as she was at the end of the line. The room was filled with spiced, warm smells and her mouth watered.

She couldn't remember the last time she'd had a hearty meal (food traveling with Florence Hardt didn't count; Mel had hardly swallowed a thing).

It seemed an eternity before she finally made her way up to the counter, where she was handed a large, steaming wooden bowl. She almost dug in then and there.

So when a large, tanned hand reached down and snatched the bowl from her hands, Mel was more than pissed.

"The fuck?!" she yelled immediately, rounding on the tall boy who held her food out of reach. Stocky, with a square-ish face and choppy, sand colored hair. He had a mean look in his beady eyes, and offered Mel a snide grin.

"This food isn't good enough for a _noble,_ is it? I'll just save your delicate palate." Mel clenched her teeth—she was tired, starving, and she'd been biting her tongue against these idiot insults all day. She was done.

"It's too good for a mangy dog like you," she said, voice so low it was barely audible. Without waiting for his response, she reached toward the bowl. At the same time, she snaked one foot forward and hooked it behind his right heel. As he fell, bowl naturally lowered, she simply snagged it back from him.

He landed on the ground hard—he was pretty heavy, from the look of his build—and his soup promptly landed in his lap. The look of pure shock and fury on his face was priceless.

"Good dog," Mel couldn't resist adding. From behind her she heard a mirthful cackle and spun to see a _much_ taller boy, with long, black hair in a silky ponytail and sharply intelligent features.

"You got what you asked for, Keenan," he said through snickers. Then he leaned over, bent at the waist, to smile into Mel's face.

Mel thought he had the expression of a snake.

"Geez, Mack, just help him up." A girl, slightly taller than Mel, ran up to Keenan, still on the ground. Her mousy braids fell over her shoulders as she knelt to help him up, hazel eyes concerned. Keenan shoved her off.

"I didn't tell him to pick a fight," Mack shrugged. "Besides, you don't need me when you've got Demi by your side, right Keenan?" The barb was clearly meant for the girl, who blushed beet red and stiffened beside a now-standing Keenan. Mack turned his attention back to Mel. "That was a pretty fast move, there, Quincy," he observed.

Phrased like a compliment…but somehow Mel heard a threat.

"Don't call me that," she said stiffly. Mack quirked an eyebrow and straightened.

"Oh?" His grin widened. "Not a fan of the family name, huh?" Mel glowered. "Hmm…your looks make more sense, anyway, if you're some kind of _mutt_."

"More like some feral cat than any noble I've heard of," Demi muttered. "She has hair like a wild animal." She clung to Keenan's arm, and he roughly shoved her off.

"Hmm…a black cat. Sounds about right—bad luck and all," Mack grinned, grabbed a second bowl of soup and walked away. Mel glared around the room—most cadets' attention was on the scene by now—before scowling at the ground and walking pointedly down the aisle between tables. On her way, she roughly bumped Demi's shoulder so the girl stumbled.

"Watch it, mutt," Keenan snarked. "Go back to whatever rathole you crawled out of, or I'll skin you alive."

Mel rolled her eyes and found a corner table to silently eat her soup. She couldn't take him seriously—he had carrots in his hair.

§§

Mel flopped onto her bed without even bothering to change out of her uniform. How was it possible she'd only been a cadet for a day and a half, and she was already this tired? And she was certain things would get progressively more difficult…would she make it?

"Um…"

At first, Mel didn't react to the quiet voice—she couldn't fathom it was directed at her, so she ignored it. But when a shadow crossed her sprawled form and a gentle hand laid on her shoulder, she sat bolt upright.

"Argh!" She sat up too fast, and her head smacked against something hard. When she unscrewed her teary eyes, she saw that "something" was a delicately pointed chin. It's owner was a wiry-looking girl with tanned, lightly freckled skin that seemed murky in the inadequate light.

"S-sorry," the girl stammered, rubbing her chin. There were tears in her golden eyes, but she smiled wide and held up a hand in apology. "I guess I surprised you…" Mel nodded slowly and raked her gaze over the other cadet. What did she want? In the past two days, Keenan and his cronies were the only people to talk to her—especially after the Instructor's _helpful_ introduction.

"What do you want?" Mel asked, bluntly. She might as well just hear it straight out, whatever it was. Golden eyes widened, two tan hands waved objection.

"N-nothing! Well…um, actually…"

"Spit it out, already," Mel grumbled.

"Could you help me get my uniform off?"

Mel blinked. Was she serious? Weren't there any number of other cadets in the bunker that could help her with the complicated straps—all of whom subtly watched them from their beds? But the girl's face appeared earnest, rose-tinged with embarrassment, and Mel sighed.

"…What's your name?" she asked. At the girl's tentative smile, Mel cast her gaze to the side and felt heat rise in her cheeks. "You know, I should probably know it before I undress you."

The other girl snorted, chuckled, and Mel's face grew even hotter.

"Ilse," she said at last, humor still thick in her voice. "Ilse Langnar."

"Well, turn around then," Mel shook her head, curt, and deftly began unhooking the straps underneath Ilse's jacket. "I guess you already know my name." She couldn't keep bitterness from her voice.

"Zara, right?"

"Don't call me that." Mel scowled, and her voice came out harsher than she'd intended. She felt anxious knots form in her stomach over the awkwardness of this situation. Why was this girl being so friendly?

And why was Mel going along with it? It wasn't like she wanted any friends…

"O-okay, sorry," Ilse stammered, glancing over her shoulder at the much smaller girl as Mel undid the last leather strap. "Then, what should I call you?" Sharp, amber eyes snapped to Ilse's face, and the girl couldn't help but flinch a bit. Something in Mel's gaze was threatening, and Ilse could practically see the iron walls around her small person.

"No need to call me anything," Mel grumbled. She sat back, dark form blending with the inky shadows of her bottom bunk.

Ilse turned around and, stubbornly, sat on the edge of Mel's bed without invitation. She saw the younger girl bristle, face one of guarded shock, but ignored it. There was something about the Quincy girl that she liked…and she spitefully wanted to break through that wall, just to see what was on the other side.

"Well I have to call you something," Ilse said, chipper, with a wide smile. "I can't keep calling you something you hate if we're going to be friends." Ilse inwardly chuckled at Mel's wide amber eyes. For all her bluster, she couldn't hide her flustered emotions at the very idea someone wanted to be _friends_ with her.

Mel didn't even know how to react. Friends? Did she actually _want_ one of those? She wasn't sure…but as she stared at Ilse's open smile, she found herself reluctant to push her away. _Besides,_ she told herself. _I probably won't last long here without some support…and a few "friends" could prove useful._

After a moment, Ilse leaned closer, voice quiet.

"I saw you with that bully, Keenan, today," she said. The moment in the cafeteria was when Ilse had first really paid attention to the other girl. She didn't seem like a noble to Ilse. Mel kept her head down, distrusted the world, and had a fire that Ilse was drawn to. Not like a noble at all, more like the street urchin kids Ilse had grown up around.

"He got what he asked for," Mel said defensively. Ilse nodded sagely.

"He did—you aren't the only person he messed with, today. And trust me, I'm not the only one who'd glad you took him down a peg." She smiled warmly, tone conspiratorial, and Mel didn't miss the implication. She still wasn't sure how she felt about Ilse, or the prospect of other "friends"…but perhaps this was worth a try.

"Just call me Mel," she said at last, and ran a hand through her wild curls to hide her discomfort. Her eyes cast around the cabin and found 10 pairs of eyes locked firmly onto her and Ilse—the other ten members of their bunk. She huffed and pushed herself from her bunk. "What are you brats looking at?" she demanded, ignoring that all of them were at least a year older than her. Unsurprisingly, none answered, and all went back to preparing for bed.

Mel sent one more glower around the room, for good measure, before working off her own uniform.

"Want some help?" Ilse asked, still perched on Mel's bed. Mel cast her a scathing look.

"No," she snapped. "And get your ass off my bed." Ilse just chuckled, stood, and pointed to where one of Mel's straps was hopelessly twisted. The damn thing had been digging into her thigh all day, and Mel never had time to try and fix it.

"Are you sure?" Ilse pressed. "You know, you've done the straps all wrong here…and this wouldn't be twisted like that if you attached it right…" Mel bristled.

"Shut up," she said. "Just help me get it off, then." She stood, glad her complexion hid her intense blush as Ilse's warm, slender fingers worked around and under her leather straps.

"It's much easier to do this with someone else," Ilse chattered happily as she worked. "Tomorrow morning I can help you put it back on, if you like. And we should cut your hair, too, before Instructor Shadis tries to cut it with one of his ODM blades."

Mel nodded once—she didn't trust her voice. When was the last time someone had been this nice to her? Even Zephyr, savior of her life, had been full of tough love and hard realities. Mel didn't know how to respond to this kind of softness.

"Lights out!" One girl, a tall, broad-shouldered red-head with a stern expression, called from the front of the room.

"Just a second!" Ilse called back. "Done," she said, patting Mel's shoulder as she stood up. "Better undress quickly or we'll get caught in the dark!" Ilse laughed with another smile at Mel, her warning playful. _We,_ she had said, as though already she and Mel were a pair.

Mel's blush didn't fade as she hurriedly removed her clothes and donned the only pajamas she had ever owned—a loose grey tank top and a pair of cloth shorts, both ragged at the edges—and slipped under the covers.

"See you in the morning, Mel!" She heard Ilse whisper from across the room.

It took Mel a very long time to get to sleep that night.

 **So our Mel is making friends, in spite of herself, haha. I guess this counts a little as in-canon, since Ilse Langnar is now involved.**

 **Unfortunately, at least part of the next chapter will continue to utilize lots of OCs, but the rest of the SnK universe and characters will catch up soon, I promise.**

 **Up next: Ilse introduces Mel to some other cadets. Will Mel come out of her shell enough to make actual friends? Training gets harder, and both Ilse and Mel struggle to remain in the military, particularly when a certain bitter bully tries to get his revenge. And when graduation looms on the horizon, some unexpected guests will appear to observe the class! How will Mel fair? Stay tuned to find out!**

 **If you have any thoughts or opinions about chapter length, timeline, pacing, characters, or anything else, please let me know! I would value any form of criticism or advice...and of course, if you feel the need to compliment my work, I'll take that too ;P**

 **So yeah-reviews are my lifeblood here on fanfiction...but simple readers are my inspiration, so I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter!**

 **Have a wonderful day a week!**


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